The morning after the siege of Fort Karst was broken, the smell of sulfur and burnt grease began to yield to the clean, sharp scent of mountain woodsmoke.
Down in the outer bailey, the wild panic that had gripped the castle for three weeks had transformed into the bustling, rhythmic labor of an ant-hill. Without a duke, a prince, or a guard post commander to bark commands from a balcony, the three thousand souls of the stronghold organized themselves along the natural grain of their trades.
Master Mason Kael and twenty apprentice stonecutters were already clearing the fractured rubble from the lower sally port, dressing new limestone blocks with broad chisels.
In the south stables, Brother Ren and fifty refugee women had established three communal soup kitchens. Huge cast-iron cooking pots, salvaged from the baggage train of the routed legion, bubbled with thick barley broth flavored with salt mutton and wild mountain leeks. For the first time in twenty days, every child in the camp received a full wooden bowl of hot food.
Near the central granary, Vane Vale sat behind a high wooden desk improvised from three flour barrels. A line of two hundred wagon drivers, blacksmiths, and guildmasters stretched across the yard, each man and woman stepping forward to register their salvage claims and receive their rations. Vane’s quill clicked against the parchment with relentless care, his pince-nez catching the morning frost.
